


The Chrysanthemum Vow

by crookedspoon



Series: The Sword and the Chrysanthemum [1]
Category: Gintama
Genre: Angst, Author's Favorite, Backstory, Canonical Character Death, Childhood, Dubious Consent, Edo Period, If you only read one work by me, Ikkoku Keisei Arc, Introspection, Knifeplay, M/M, Memories, Pre-Canon, Reverse Chronology, War, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-14 10:23:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their outlooks on life reverse when they're together. Takasugi is a trigger to the past, Katsura a beacon to the present. They are locked in step, moving sideways and back, never forward.</p><p>A trip through the rabbit hole of memory and back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chrysanthemum Vow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lillian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lillian/gifts).



> Lillian, thank you very much for prompting this! Receiving the assignment excited me greatly. I've wanted to write Takasugi/Katsura years ago, but never actually dared dive into the Gintama fandom. So, thanks to you, this is my first real Gintama fic.
> 
> Also, I hope you don't mind the kinks. They weren't planned, they just happened.
> 
> Also written for the prompt June 17th, 2013 "You'll either leave this war bloodied, or with my blood on your swords" from 31_days. As always, many thanks to my lifesaver [Neurotoxia](archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia), without whose support and inspiration this wouldn't have been born.
> 
> Warnings: Knifeplay, dub-con, angst, violence, lack of Gintama-esque humour, canon character death

Katsura envisions them, counting: one body, two, and yet another, garbage tossed into the dumpsters, slashed open and spilling their guts into the trash like cloth dolls with their seams popped open. Not an uncommon sight around this part of Edo, where even rats aren't noticed unless stepped on. Here, no neon signs or blinking billboards advertising soaplands, adult toy stores and the like chase away the night. Only the occasional red lantern reading _izakaya_ or _oden_ adds a pocket of light to the gloomy streets.

They are as empty as they are dark; only his straw sandals scrape the gravel underfoot.

He walks past the alleyways and the phantoms of his imagination, keeping his pace steady and his arms hidden from the chill. Nights can be quite cold compared to the heat of day. 

Anyone could be lurking in the shadows, ready to strike, but he isn't afraid: nobody would come after him. The reported deaths have all been Bakufu officials, after all.

It's a trail – not one he has left, but he wonders how long before the Shinsengumi would pin this on him, unheeding that his modus operandi included explosives, not slicing tools. And even those no longer.

He has changed, but his record remains. There is no absolving himself from it, in the eyes of the Bakufu. Blood can't cleanse blood; only punishment awaits. Someone once asked him what taking lives mattered now, when his head would roll either way.

("Why hesitate? One life or one hundred. Yours is forfeit. You will be executed in any case.")

Perhaps that is what his _shishi_ fear: the Mibu dogs swooping in and taking him away on false claims. They offered to walk with him, see him home, as if Katsura couldn't hide or run by himself, as if he hadn't done so before. It would take more than a coarse conglomerate of country bumpkins to bring him to his knees. And yet, the Joui worried about him, despite his assurances that he would be fine and that, anyway, it was such a fine night, he would like to enjoy its stillness for a while.

He would have the chance to. Elizabeth is off-planet visiting ~~Eren~~ ~~Elizabeth~~ ~~Erenzabeth~~ Eren and will return in two days. Until then, solitude awaits him.

Or so he thought.

Katsura notices something is off the moment he touches his door. The scent of smoke wafts from inside, of cloves and opium. A familiar presence that is more dangerous than the Bakufu. Katsura readies his sword with a flick of his thumb. The Joui were right in urging him to wear it despite the sword ban. He might use it now.

What little light illumines the streets pools into the front hall when he slides open the door. It softens the shadows, heightens their contours. A gray cloud billows across the left window. 

"So it was your doing after all," he says. 

A star glows orange, then wanes. It's strange: Katsura would have expected him to aim straight for his throat, like usual. Nothing stirs, except the cloud again. Is he wounded or why didn't he lash out?

It's only laughter that rises from the depth, like miasma bubbling from a swamp, both low and mocking.

"No 'welcome back'? You're cold, Zura."

"It's not Zura, it's Katsura." 

The door clacks shut behind him and another layer of blackness settles over the room. Greetings are wasted on him, those ritual acknowledgments to gatherings and partings. He never really leaves; he is ubiquitous, or at least ever-present where Katsura goes. His presence hangs over him like shadows over the sun. Both his absence and proximity can be confining.

Now, it's only them in an enclosed space and Katsura pictures the fallout if his visitor decides to strike after all: the table knocked over or in two, the slashed futon, the broken lacquerware, tea and liquor seeping into the tatami.

Katsura turns to the lamp he keeps beside the entrance when he leaves. The diffuse light filtering through the _shoji_ screen is enough to discern vague outlines. He lifts the lamp's paper frame and produces a match from the pocket in his sleeve. It flares high when he strikes it, a rasp in the silence, like a whisper of ancient times. Strange that the advanced Amanto create things that remind him of the past, of ghost stories by moonlight and storms shaking the branches of nearby cherry trees.

The flame licks at the cotton strand in the chamber (which could use some trimming), connecting and conquering, until the wick itself quivers to life, fluttering higher with every breath it takes. There's something sensual about lighting a lamp that is not lost on Katsura, although he usually isn't perceptive in that area.

He closes the bamboo-framed shutter and picks up the lamp. Its soft glow bathes his room in pale orange light, and with it the visitor. Shinsuke sits on the windowsill, nursing his _kiseru_ and gazing out through the bars, one pale leg extending from his yukata and propped up on the ledge. He's not self-conscious about his body and unlike Katsura, apparently doesn't care how much he shows. As though his yukata were merely a garment thrown on out of consideration for others. Although Katsura cannot imagine Shinsuke being considerate of anyone, most of all strangers.

His gaze shifts to Katsura as he steps into the inner room, but he doesn't say anything, just puffs out smoke, pauses and grins. It's unnerving.

They are both taciturn by nature, but can become unyielding about reticence, as though partaking in impromptu contests to out-silence the other.

But this is not a competition, and Katsura, being nothing if not courteous, again follows the social call to entertain with words. Or, one word; it suffices to get his message across.

"Tea?" he asks as he kneels in front of his brazier.

He has been called many things – runaway, alien pet keeper, _okama_ – but never unrefined. Even terrorists could be well-mannered, after all. Shinsuke, of course, knows that, being one himself. He used to hate Katsura for his conduct. The reverse was also true.

"I'm not here to for your _hospitality_ ," Shinsuke says and the last word drips with derision. What are his reasons then, Katsura wonders. It's never only one and it's never simple. 

Shinsuke doesn't venture on to say.

The brazier gives off warmth and in removing the lid, Katsura notices some embers are still glowing. Of course: Shinsuke must have used them for his pipe.

One could argue that if Katsura were cut down by this man, it would be his own fault for turning his back on the enemy. Despite the bad blood between them, Katsura has never hesitated to face away from Shinsuke. Perhaps it was a remnant of the past, when they were fighting side by side and trust was essential for both efficiency and survival. Perhaps it was because he knew their strengths to be equal – but where Katsura has the advantage of full eyesight and knowledge of surroundings, Shinsuke has ruthlessness: he doesn't care what is destroyed in his path. Even if it's himself. The man is a time bomb, one that Katsura can't defuse, because there's no logic behind the haphazard placement of the multi-coloured wires. Shinsuke's structure doesn't follow a pattern Katsura recognises.

Katsura is paralysed by the potential question that hangs between them like the sickly sweet smell of decay. He forces himself to pick up the tongs next to the brazier to stoke the embers and fan the flames. He throws in some lavender to mask the burning smell. Shinsuke would notice his rigidity and attribute it to something it is not – fear, perhaps, or apprehension. Uncertainty might play its part. It's a precarious question. Shinsuke is unstable and therefore unpredictable at the best of times, so the turnout might be dangerous. Still, Katsura cannot worry about treading on thin ice in the middle of summer. Best to find out quickly which mood it is.

He feels a shift in the air, and hears cloth swishing. Shinsuke is moving around him. A metallic clank. Katsura does not wince. He almost expected it.

"What are you here for then?"

Katsura is curious. Shinsuke's visits have become more frequent over the past months. He must be up to something in Edo then. What is he planning?

Warm knuckles brush his cheeks, but he doesn't turn. The fingers slide into his hair, prickling his scalp and he finds himself leaning in to the touch.

Sharp pain flares as his head is yanked back. A sliver of cold presses against his neck. Shinsuke's pocket-knife, if experience is any indication.

"Why do I ever seek you out?" Shinsuke murmurs into his ear and it vibrates down the length of Katsura's body. To confuse me, he thinks, to upset me and make me falter, to hurt me to love me to break me to kill me.

"I cannot say."

It's all of these things and none. But Katsura _is_ confused and it's getting harder to summon his anger for this man, so how can he say what it is? Perhaps it's age getting in the way – he _is_ getting older – or perhaps it's Gintoki's influence, his laid-back, uncaring attitude. But Gintoki wouldn't fall for this.

"I wonder when you will make good of your promise."

Katsura draws in a breath as the knife slides across skin. Shinsuke's other hand closes around his throat. It's not so much the shock or pain, but the weight of that vow. It has been intended as warning: do not show your face around me, or else. Since then, many moons have risen and many times their paths have crossed. Or, Shinsuke has made them cross. 

And not every encounter has been this civil. 

Katsura treats each meeting as their last, a long line of farewells they'll never say. He should be the one to ram his sword between the other man's ribs – it would be an act of kindness to put his damaged soul to rest. Maybe he can find peace in another life.

But there's another promise, older and weightier, that stays his hand.

Shinsuke's visits trigger an avalanche of memories, of anachronistic pain, the resurfacing of old wounds, washed and dressed, but still as infected. He feels feverish and trembling, his body temperature vacillates from brazier-hot to mountain-cold and the ground gives way. There is nothing for him to hold on to; he floats into nothingness.

Sometimes, like this, a pocket of time opens and sucks him in, transporting him back to hushed encampments on the eve of the war, or to deserted battlefields in which nothing moved but vultures. Other times, Shinsuke drags him there step by step, as if retracing them through time.

*

"You cannot possess me, whatever you do. I'll kill you before that happens. I am still my own master."

*

"All his ideals," he said and held one end of the paper to the glowing tobacco in his _kiseru_. A dramatic act, but for whose enjoyment? Certainly not Katsura's.

"You can symbolically burn whatever you want, but they live on inside us."

"Then I will just have to burn you, won't I?" he said and flicked the blackening paper at Katsura, but it crumbled before reaching him.

"You cannot kill us. Gintoki and I are your remaining thread to sensei."

Shinsuke smiled and it was twisted and horrible.

"Am I not killing you every time we are together?" He leaned closer, parted Katsura's robe with his free hand, slid it over his chest. "Am I not poisoning your heart?" Slipped it off his shoulder. "You're weak, Zura, you and your ideals." He didn't say _you're weak for me,_ but Katsura expected it.

What he didn't expect was Shinsuke turning over the bowl of his _kiseru_ and emptying it over his chest. A tap and the burning ball of _koiki_ landed beneath his collarbone.

"Takasugi, you—" Katsura jerked upright and the ember fell to the floor, blackening a circle into the tatami before extinguishing. Katsura watched the smoke curl, then snapped his head around to glare at Shinsuke.

"What was it? 'Next time we meet, I'll kill you'? Or was that all a show you put up for Gintoki's sake? Because he's not to know about this?" Shinsuke's index finger traced Katsura's jugular, pressed over his Adam's apple and into the dip of his clavicle.

Katsura huffed and swatted the hand away before it reached the new wound. He brushed off the ashes from his front. "What about you? 'I destroy everything in my path'? You're not doing so well with that either."

"I should think I'm doing well enough in destroying you." He grinned again and his tongue dove into the fresh burn.

*

"Geez, Zura. What happened to you?" Gintoki asked and pointed at the band-aids on Katsura's wrists and arms. The ones he could see. "Fell into a hole lined with barbed wire? Seriously, you terrorists have no sense whatsoever. You look ghastly."

"It's not Zura, it's Katsura. And I ran into Takasugi. I think he's planning something."

"He did this? Was he trying to make sashimi out of you? That's some shoddy work then."

*

"You're foolish, Zura. You could have put an end to this. How many chances have you had to kill the shogun? You are soft. What makes you waver? Is it because of Gintoki, or that Amanto girl he keeps, the one you call leader? Are you letting attachment get in the way of your principles?

"I have seen what the Amanto have done on other planets. What do you know of it? You continue to live in your naive little world, away from all the hardships you once faced."

*

"You've grown your hair out again." Shinsuke brushed his fingers down the length of Katsura's strands and twirled them around a knuckle. Katsura readied himself for a pull that never came. Instead, Shinsuke inhaled the scent of his hair.

It was rather uncomfortable to be this close to a man he didn't recognise. He had come to expect his crazy moods, but this – this was almost tender and Katsura didn't know what to make of it.

"Someone once told me it reminded them of sensei." 

And besides, he had worn it like that for as long as he could remember. What Shinsuke's idiot subordinate had done to him had almost felt like a buzzcut: frayed strands barely brushing his shoulders at first. For months he hadn't been able to gather it in a ponytail. He even had had to wear wigs like some other _okama_ when hiding out at Saigou's bar. It had been irritating in more ways than one. 

He brushed the strand behind his ear, so it would slip from Shinsuke's grasp. But he caught it and opened his eye. Something undefined glimmered in it.

"It was I who told you."

"Oh."

Could it have been disappointment he spotted? No, that wasn't a feeling he could associate with Shinsuke anymore.

*

"You say you enjoy beauty, and yet you want to destroy everything. This doesn't make sense."

"There is beauty in destruction."

*

Recent events made him think. The words he had spoken in anger still haunted him.

They didn't often talk about their past. It was a mutual agreement, though unspoken, that they had separated themselves from their former lives. They didn't mention anything out of consideration for the other.

"Did you mean what you said?" Katsura asked. "To Takasugi, I mean. Don't you want to try and bring him back from the edge, like you do with everyone?"

Gintoki's eyes shifted to him, but they were unreadable. "Even I can't bring back lost causes, Zura."

"It's not Zura, it's Katsura. And it's not like you to give up on a comrade." Katsura paused and inspected the strands of hair that now brushed his shoulders. Years had gone into growing them, but only one swing of a sword had been needed to snip them off. Well, it was an image change. "I think he's misguided. I want to help him."

Gintoki leaned back and threaded his fingers behind his head. "It's a waste of time. He's not coming back."

"How can you say that? He's heading towards his downfall. Knowing this, how can we turn away and live?"

No, it wasn't consideration. That implied sympathy. They both knew of the burden that they carried, but it wasn't their way to remind each other of it. If anything, they want to act out their lives as if they really had started anew. 

And any lie only worked so long as no one reminded you of the truth.

*

"All I wanted was an apology. It might have been easier had I known your heart."

"You want to know my heart? Carve it out then."

*

"I can no longer fight by your side like this. I'm sorry."

*

It spirals down the hole like this: memory weaving memory, in a toppling array of colours and sounds and pains that is too disordered to be called a succession. All it takes is one sentence, one word, one thought and another barrage is spawned, hailing him like gatling rounds.

As though he was trying to find that one moment where it has all gone wrong.

It must have been a lifetime ago, when the declining health in both of them dulled their fighting spirits and had them reach an impasse. They were headstrong characters and had a legacy to keep alive, but the odds were against them. It was one thing to mobilise your own strength in the face of overwhelming adversity, and quite another to have your men face the same.

By the end, their defense was crumbling: the pikes had been broken through and they didn't have enough men to form reserve parties anymore. The soldiers staggered back from the frontlines to catch their breaths and rest their bones; they had barely enough time to regain some strength before they had to be rotated in again.

There had been deserters too, young men their age who had sought glory in battle only to realise that being in the thick of it was different from hearing about it around campfires. He couldn't blame them: it was easier to contemplate death than to face it.

But now, with the Amanto forces pushing them to their last, hardly any threw down their arms. They probably knew they would either die here or on the run; there was no safe way to disengage from the fighting any longer.

Katsura clicked his tongue and pushed away the carefully annotated maps. What use was there to go over battle plans, when they had to keep revising on the spot? Any note he made was outdated the same instance.

He hefted his sword, ignoring the stab of pain, and stepped out of the command tent.

"It's no use, I'm going in," he said to Shinsuke, who was leaning on his sword, glistening with sweat from fever and fatigue. His blood-soaked bandage was coming undone. A red tear was drying on his cheek. He shouldn't be fighting, not so soon, but he wasn't the only wounded man who couldn't lie down when weapons clanged around him.

"You're doing no such thing," Shinsuke said and grabbed his arm, right above his wound. He knew where it hurt.

"And you're not in any position to stop me." Katsura's mouth drew into a line.

"Try me."

"You would fight me to keep me here?"

"I'll do what it takes."

"Why would you do such an imbecilic thing?"

"Because our men need you." 

_I need you, too_ , Katsura's mind supplied, but that confession never came. Despite everything that had happened around and between them, Katsura was surprised to even have the energy for romantic thought. How utterly useless. He wasn't even sure he wanted Shinsuke to say it.

"They're looking up to you," Shinsuke continued. "As long as you're alive they think they can do anything."

"In that case it is even more important for them to see me fight. I can't hole up in the tent and sit idle while our men are fighting for their lives."

"At least wait for the reserves to fill in. It would be reckless to join in alone."

*

"What happened to my squad?"

"I'm sorry," the soldier stammered. "They overwhelmed us. It was as if they had known you wouldn't fight with us that day."

*

The letter arrived when they were stationed in Yokohama for a coup.

My dear students,  
the guards allowed me to write you this one letter. It will be my final piece of writing. I hope it will reach you.  
It pains me to inform you that my execution is scheduled for tomorrow, and that we will not have another chance to meet each other. That is my only regret.  
If I may express one last wish: Do not throw your lives away for me. As Shida Kichinobu said, “When there is a choice of either living or dying, as long as there remains nothing behind to blemish one’s reputation, it is better to live." Do not needlessly lay down your lives. As long as there are reasons for you to cheat death, promise me you will.  
Accomplish great things, greater things than I have managed. I am entrusting to you the whole of my knowledge. Use it well.  
Please remember my teachings, and follow your souls.

Kansei 6, Edo  
Yoshida Shouyou

They abandoned their plot and hastened to the prison grounds in Edo. Or, Shinsuke hastened, riding like a tempest; Gintoki and Katsura hurried to keep up with him. Katsura didn't know whether he believed they could still rescue their teacher.

They found his head on a nail, made up to be life-like.

The simple word shock couldn't encompass the torrent of emotions that rent through them. Katsura felt like his body wanted to abandon its bone structure and turn into pulp. 

It was Shinsuke who moved first, stretching out his hands to lift sensei's head down. When his fingers alighted on his skin, Katsura thought he heard a broken sob. Gintoki had turned away and covered his eyes.

Neither of them wanted to look, wanted to acknowledge what was in front of them; this was worse than any dismembered corpse on a battlefield. This was too personal: a thread to their past had been cut, a thread that had bound them to each other and kept them from falling apart.

*

The hand on his wrist told him everything Shinsuke’s words couldn’t: _don’t go away. I need you._ At least, that was how Katsura chose to interpret it. Years muddled his experience and his exact thoughts that moment were lost in time.

Katsura couldn’t let go immediately; he saw the scenes of battle again in his mind, looming Amanto with their sabres and plasma ray guns and laser cannons felling their comrades. The ground was muddy with blood; he tried not to hurl when he slipped on the guts of a samurai whose face had been squashed by a massive boot. During the fight, he didn't think, just moved, but his brain stored the images he saw for his later enjoyment. 

He is feverish with sickness when Shinsuke touched him. His desperate intensity was matched by the light in his eyes and the shredded breaths rattling in his throat.

They came to depend on this, the hurried moments in the dark, the desperation of being alive. It was determination to forget that drove them to achieve those blissful moments of blackness that mere sleep could not offer them anymore. And it helped, oh gods, it helped but Katsura felt guilty and ashamed for having this when his men were wounded and dying, knowing that tomorrow would be no more than a repetition of all this. 

If times were different he might have welcomed it, enjoyed it even, but as it was, this was simple necessity. 

"Be quick before someone finds us."

"I could hurt you."

"Then do."

Katsura wouldn't admit it, but he needed the pain to know he was still alive.

*

And Katsura, as the acting leader, briefly wondered how wise it was to let him continue this. It was hard meeting his senior officers at eye-level, giving them orders and sending them to die, knowing he had some respite from the fighting while they had not.

"How can we seek our own pleasure if men are dying out there?" Katsura asked once, when Shinsuke snuck into his tent again.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me."

"To have one less thing to worry about. Think about how much energy you waste ignoring your body's needs – be it food, water, or sleep. Then consider how much better you could lead our men if you didn't have to push yourself so hard. 

"It is shameful to be so without restraint."

"You create a problem where there is none."

"I'm just not strong enough to do this."

"Strength is something weak men have defined so they have something to strive for and feel good about. You don't strike me as someone who wants to feel good about himself."

*

Katsura's eyelids fluttered. It was too quiet – his head was filled with gauze, and every sound was muted buzzing. It was terrible to be alone with his his thoughts and memories of nearby explosions. Blood spraying like a geyser. A severed foot grazing his shoulder. Men and Amanto alike screaming (screeching) in agony.

He felt trapped inside his body, unable to control it, get it to rise, to heft the sword, to fight. But he was so tired.

"Don't — him. He mi— in shock." 

Voices. Drifting into his unconscious mind, luring him out. There was whistling in his ears that grew louder the closer he came to the surface.

"—all right?"

"Takes —end him off."

"Idiots," he rasped, and his throat felt like sandpaper. "Not dead yet. Got Amanto to kill."

"Zura, you're awake." One of his hands warmed. He could not tell which.

"Not Zura. Other name. Don't sit here. You've got more important..."

"I decide what's important. I should think looking after the commander's well-being warrants my attendance."

"How many?"

"I don't think it's—"

"Tell me."

"Eighteen dead, thirty-nine more wounded."

Suddenly the shock of death became too real again, coils of it winding ever tighter about one's throat. It seeped into their bones. Every day they got up knowing this could be their last, and every night they went to bed knowing they might not wake. They faced it with steady eyes, and were prepared for it. Their resolve was hard and unwavering.

There was a difference between accepting one's own death and that of others. But the studying of military science proved futile if you lacked the courage to sacrifice not only yourself but your followers as well.

How many altogether? Three hundred, four? He could not afford to lose track. He needed to remember, to mourn their deaths and pray for their spirits.

*

"What good is honour, when you're crawling through the mud like vermin?"

*

In the beginning of the campaign Katsura was threatened to be overwhelmed by the gap between experience and expectation. He had been an eager student. Hard-working, too. He had consumed book after book on the art of war, thinking he understood. His family was one of high-ranking samurai after all, and had been for generations. The courage to face death without hesitation runs in his veins.

He had thought he understood. He had thought all he needed was courage and determination and the remembrance of one building in flames.

All those years and he had learned nothing.

"Oi, Zura," Gintoki said and ran a hand through his unruly hair. "If you have enough energy to be scrubbing your clothes, save it to kill some Amanto."

Katsura looked at him with wide eyes. "They're unclean."

He parted the fabric so Gintoki could have a look. Dark spots had soaked into them: water and blood and grime, and not all of that would ever wash or dry out. He should have been used to the sight.

He could buy a new uniform and sell this one; someone was always looking for scraps. But what would keep him from ruining the new, clean one? What would keep his comrades from bleeding out on him, while he uselessly tried to dress their wounds? He could sell all of his possessions until nothing was left but his memories. He could not sell those.

"Now, listen here," Gintoki squatted beside him so they were at eye level. "You can't expect to keep clean on a battlefield, when you take out your enemies. They will squirt their fluids everywhere, there's no way you won't get hit. It's a fact you have to come to terms with."

It was what Shinsuke would have said. "During wartime, cleanliness is sought in vain." Hadn't he in fact said something like that once? Katsura could not remember.

"I know that, Gintoki. And I am not asking for spotlessness. But will our morale not also waver if we succumb to fatigue and begin to neglect our appearance? 'Inside the skin of a dog, outside the hide of a tiger,' remember?"

Gintoki rolled his eyes. "If you have enough presence of mind to be waxing poetic I suggest you take over drills for now. Before you scrub your hands off and have to be invalided out."

*

On the one hand, he wasn't pleased to see Shinsuke among the ranks of the Joui, on the other, he felt a sort of grim resolution about it. It was only appropriate for a student of Yoshida Shouyou's to take up arms in his defense.

Katsura had to bury this infantile feud. They were both no longer children playing at war, but adults in the midst of it. He should have outgrown old grudges, but his resentment apparently lay deeper than the grave he dug for it.

*

Katsura follows the path farther down. Perhaps he's seeking a place in his mind so distant the present cannot penetrate, so he can push it out and ignore what is happening. During the war, he never fled into his memories. Instead, he used them as an anchor to his cause.

It all leads back to their first crossing of paths, two lifetimes ago. Before everything went up in flames.

He has dreamed of it often, of hiding in the underbrush and watching the fire eat away his former life. He can still hear it roaring in his ears, feel its brightness sting his eyes and its heat coat his skin.

Why were those monks holding down Gintoki? Why were they taking away sensei?

His fingers curled into the fabric of Shinsuke's _haori_ , but he wouldn't be held back. He had been a weak child, but at that moment his anger was stronger than Katsura.

Shinsuke rushed at these men, screaming, and attacking them with stones and twigs, swinging wildly. Katsura was shocked to see so much raw emotion – shocked and awed – because where he could not move a muscle without scrambling through everything he has learned, searching for the right kind of movement that might be appropriate in this, Shinsuke had stormed in without hesitation. Perhaps he was more of a warrior than Katsura had given him credit for.

Still, it gave him no advantage: these men were too many, too powerful. They kicked him down, several times, like a rabid dog. Rage might have given him strength, but it was still not enough.

His body moved of its own then; reason was no longer able to control it. Everything was too loud, too bright, too hot, and he didn't notice the impact with the ground or the gravel digging into his palms or the abrasions on his skin. Blood was pooling in the dirt and men were shouting, but he couldn't understand the words.

It was only when he noticed a pike heading for Shinsuke that he stopped attacking. Instead, he threw himself at the other boy, barely catching his midriff and toppling him. The weapon went past both of them.

Shinsuke struggled to get him off, but Katsura held him back. He wouldn't be lucky enough to stop another attack, and he wouldn't be able to stomach Shinsuke being impaled right in front of him.

Despite the heat, he felt as though he were frozen stiff and he didn't let go of Shinsuke, even when two of the monks – were they even monks? – tried to pry them apart and subdue them.

In the end, they took sensei and there was nothing they could have done.

"Why did you do it? Why did you hold me back? They were hauling away sensei! How could you let them?" Shinsuke would scream at him later, pushing at his shoulders and slapping him, trying to get a reaction out of Katsura. But Katsura had none to give.

All he could remember was sensei's back shrinking.

He had been prepared to pick up a bough and wield it like a sword, the way he had learned, but the moment he had rushed forth, he had forgotten all about his training, his education and his identity. He had thrashed about ineffectually, overcome by emotions. He didn't want that to happen again. Perhaps he could have achieved more if he had had more clarity of mind.

Whatever it was, they vowed to become stronger and never to be so weak that they couldn't protect what was important to them.

*

Sensei must have known something was coming. He was behaving strangely, trailing off during his lectures at the slightest sound from beyond the gates, gazing off into the distance, and meeting with strangers at night until the rapeseed oil in his lamps gave out.

Katsura should have known something was coming, too. But Shouyou-sensei often stayed up late with students or fellow scholars, debating society or poetics. They would share their own endeavors and point out the strengths and weaknesses of the individual prosodic features. Katsura would sometimes sit in a corner and pretend to be studying his own texts, when in reality he would eavesdrop.

A recurring theme was the opening of ports, and barbarians and foreign trade. Crimes of the shogunate.

One night, Shouyou-sensei came back to his study room after seeing out his visitors. Katsura put down his book, as sensei knelt down in front of him.

"Katsura-kun, do you have a moment?"

"Is something the matter, sensei?"

"I have a request to make." Sensei's serious tone was at odds with his usual peaceful manner.

"How can I help you?"

"Promise me that whatever happens you will look out for the others for me."

"I don't understand. Are you going somewhere, sensei?"

"These children are stubborn and their character hasn't entirely formed yet. But please, see to it that they don't kill each other. They don't know any better now, but one day they will accomplish great things."

"Kill? Why would they—"

Sensei's smile cut him off. "You may not understand this now. Even so, I am counting on you."

*

"What do you think of him," he asked Gintoki once. He didn't really know what answer he expected: an affirmation of Takasugi's mean character, an agreement that he should be expelled, an unimpressed stare coupled with a question: what was Katsura's preoccupation with the other boy?

Gintoki didn't even bother to hide his yawn behind a hand. "I think he's lonely."

"And making up for it by teasing us?"

"He wants attention." But he didn't say whose.

*

"Between the sword and the flower, what would you choose?" Shouyou-sensei once asked them in a lecture, placing his sword and a yellow chrysanthemum on the table before him. He listened to his students' accounts, most of which chose the sword. Katsura did, too. It was a clean split between boys and girls, possibly because they thought sensei was testing them.

"The chrysanthemum is a perennial flower and thus stands for eternity. What does that tell us? That beauty is eternal. The sword, however, dulls with age, and rusts.

"The flower is a symbol of life and beauty; the sword of destruction and death. The flower pleases the eye with its beauty and gives life to other flowers. The sword cannot do that; it can only take life. But it is hard where the flower is delicate. What purpose does it have then – beyond its beauty – you may ask. 

"A thing is never only what you perceive on the surface. It can have culinary or medicinal uses, among other things. Beauty has a calming effect. If you can enjoy it, sereneness will be your reward. A warrior needs clarity and peace of mind, before his sword can strike. Otherwise it will endanger him. 

"It is not wrong to choose the sword to protect the flower. In fact, every sword needs something to protect or it will be useless. 

"I want you to think about what is important to you and what you deem worthy to protect. Could you imagine giving your life for something important? Do you perhaps have something like that already? Write at least a page. I would like to collect your answers and read them."

*

"When your hair is down like this, it reminds me of sensei."

*

Katsura sought him out in his study, where he was writing a letter in the fresh glow of dawn. Katsura remained by the door, waiting for him to finish. Before long, sensei dipped the brush in the cup of water that perched on his brazier to stay warm and cleaned away the excess ink.

"Good morning, Katsura-kun. What can I do for you?"

"I would like to have a word, if I may."

"Come in." He put the brush back on its stand. "What is it you want to talk about?"

Katsura entered the room proper and knelt in front of sensei. He bowed, then took a deep breath before answering. "Sensei, please forgive me for being rude and speaking my mind. I have long thought about whether to bring this to your attention, but I can no longer ignore it."

Sensei's fond smile urged him to continue. It conveyed that whatever Katsura was about to say would not affect sensei's opinion of him.

"Sensei, I don't think Takasugi-kun is fit to be a student here."

"Why do you think so?"

"He is rude and unreasonable and doesn't seem to want to follow the samurai way."

His smile didn't falter. "It is true that Takasugi-kun is unruly. I have of course talked to him about his character, but not to reform it. I believe it is wrong to regulate the behaviour of my students. Their growth would be stunted. After all, we wouldn't nip a flower in the bud, would we?"

 _We would, if the flower was ill_ , Katsura thought sourly. "I don't think so."

"If we manage to channel his energy instead of subduing it, he will gain from it the intense willpower required to accomplish great things."

That was sensei's position and no argument would change it. He wouldn't give up on Shinsuke. Instead, he encouraged him. That was the only time when Katsura's mind was clouded enough to disagree with sensei.

Katsura isn't ashamed of his underhanded approach. He still doesn't believe Shinsuke belonged there. And if he had been sent away, how different would their lives have been?

*

"Gintoki is so much nicer than you."

"He's only lazier."

*

"Sensei!" Katsura's feet pattered across the veranda's wooden floorboards. "Sensei! There is a boy sleeping in my room. And he's cradling your sword!"

Katsura's chest was heaving by the time he found sensei, but it was more from shock than from the run. His tousled hair was flying everywhere – not done up neatly in a ponytail. He had just woken up, only to spot an unknown boy with silver hair dozing in the corner.

"It's alright, Katsura-kun. I told him he could sleep in there."

Katsura sagged against the doorframe in relief. He won't question sensei about his choices, since this was his house, but he can't help feeling a little peeved not to have been consulted on the matter. Or at least warned.

"He is a new student of ours, so please make him feel welcome. He has nowhere else to go."

*

"Have you heard already?" the children whispered to one another. "There is a demon roaming the countryside."

"Yes, and he's eating the dead."

"That's gross!"

They spread many such tales, overheard from servants or merchants in the town, but it was mostly nothing more than hearsay. They exchanged those stories like trophies while hoeing the fields alongside the farmers. It was a source of entertainment, something to keep the mind busy while the body toiled.

*

Shouyou-sensei's comportment inspired Katsura to be like him, educated and principled, but also kind. He liked to spend his days in sensei's company, be it in the school or on the paddies, and did not want to miss a moment of it, or the opportunity to learn from him.

He had talked to his parents about this. They had listened to each argument he had presented without saying a word, then withdrawn to talk it over in private. Finally, they had agreed to comply with his wish.

"Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice, Yoshida-sensei. We know you are a busy man and appreciate your taking time."

"Not at all. When the topic is one of my students it would be wrong of me to make you wait."

His parents relayed to sensei what Katsura had talked over with them before: in order to better conduct his studies, he would need to take up board at the school. That way he could study at all times without imposing on sensei.

"We expect great things from him. And if this is the path he wants to pursue, we would be proud to enable him to do it." This was not exactly what they had told Katsura – they had been more reserved about their opinion – but it sounded good in front of sensei.

"It pleases me to hear that this school benefits Katsura-kun's academic needs. Unfortunately though, there isn't enough space to take up students. The only thing I could offer would be a pallet in my house, but this wouldn't differ so much from his current situation."

"May I speak?" Katsura asked. Until then, he had been sitting quietly off to the side.

"Go ahead."

"Please, sensei. You are here most of the time and there is no one to relieve you. I could look after the students when you are out or resting."

The arguments just flowed from his mouth like water. His parents were shocked at the lack of restraint, but Shouyou-sensei only listened and would eventually give in to his request. He could use a helper, after all.

Katsura learned then that sometimes you had to bend the rules a little to achieve your goals.

*

Until Katsura – whose name was Kido then – was in his seventh year, he had been taught at home: the numbers, the syllabaries, the directions and the distinctions between young and old, upper and lower class, his elders and his peers.

Katsura liked to believe that nothing was too difficult for him to understand, and that interest was enough to learn everything. Every morning he got up during the hour of the tiger, even before the servants, as samurai were supposed to, and washed in the cold water from the well in the garden. After that, he practiced his letters until the maid brought him breakfast.

Oftentimes, he would help his father attend his patients. They came from far and wide, even the outlying villages of the domain, and his father treated all equally, no matter their social status. Katsura's tasks would be to grind powder or mix potions, but also to wash wounds and re-apply ramie bindings. He liked the cleaning, and imagined that alone improved their patients' health.

"Are you feeling better, sir?"

"Of course. Your help did the trick."

He learned a lot about the human body and its ailments during that time, but also about the people and what plagues them – not only physically, but mentally as well. Crops, for example, had been failing in recent years and food was scarce. His father understood: his own supply of rice shrank when the farmers couldn't pay their taxes. As a samurai, he got his pay from his lord, but he didn't think it was right to take away from the peasants when they themselves had nothing to give.

"If only the shogunate would find another way," he lamented.

Despite his youth and inexperience, the implication of such talks were not lost on Katsura, and they influenced his way of thinking. But going over them in his head lead him nowhere; he needed guidance.

His quick wit and diligence was to his parents' satisfaction. Still, they didn't comply with his request to send him to the Meirinkan. (He had heard the domain school housed even more books and scrolls than his father's study, and he would allow him to read them all.) His father was influenced by Kaibara's precepts and followed his suggestions on education to the letter. 

"You will have to be patient another year."

The same year, he stopped being a ~~wooden door~~ Kido and officially became a ~~n actual tree~~ member of the Katsura family. An honour, they said, and Katsura certainly felt honoured, because now he was allowed to read the Classics under his new father's tuition. But he also missed the closeness to the common people.

It was difficult to adapt at first – not the new family situation, or the responsibility that came with it, but the name. Its written character was more elegant, true, but the sound was off, and he had to keep reminding himself that this was what he was called now. ("It's not Kido, it's Katsura.")

The following year, he was enrolled in the Meirinkan. It turned out his biological father hadn't let him attend before because the school only accepted children at the beginning of their eighth year.

Once he could go, he met other children from the town and surrounding villages. He did not make friends though, and some of the children teased him, but that was okay, because his objective was to learn, not to please everyone. He had also been taught about class distinctions – even among samurai – which said that different castes should not mingle. (It was a difficult concept to grasp, because of his late father's vocation.) The bruises he carried home only attested to the other boys' vulgar nature. He also knew they would be punished for their unruly behaviour, so there was no need for him to get involved.

"That is what the authorities are for," his father told him.

By the end of Katsura's ninth year, a young intellectual returned from his studies in Edo and set up a private school for promising young students. At first, he taught at his own home, but when Katsura's father heard he was building a school in Matsumoto, below the castle walls, he enrolled his son. This young man, after all, was famed for his knowledge and educational success, and wouldn't it be an opportunity for Katsura to study under him?

Katsura himself was interested in the prospect of learning at a new school, because the Meirinkan was stifling. They didn't allow him to make the progress he wanted; they followed some kind of outline, so it wasn't possible for the students to get ahead of their classmates.

At the Shoka private school, on the other hand, he would be free to choose what to study, he was told. He wanted to go.

The building itself was tiny: eighteen and a half mats and three rooms, but the garden was beautiful, and he imagined the cherry trees to look majestic in full bloom.

The teacher himself was impressive, but not imposing. A true gentleman.

"You must be Katsura-kun. I am Yoshida Shouyou. Welcome to my school."

"Thank you for taking me in, Yoshida-sensei. I am pleased to make your acquaintance." Katsura bowed deeply to show his deference, as was customary.

"Please, call me Shouyou." He was surprised to feel a hand on his head, and his eyes darted up. The man's smile was gentle and Katsura felt his own stiffness melt away. "Now, before I show you around, tell me what the purpose of your studies is."

Katsura hesitated for a moment. Was this a test? What would be the right thing to say; what did this man want to hear? "I want to use my knowledge to help people. I want to be useful."

"I see, that's good. This school strives to be an encouraging environment for students who wish to learn. As such, you will find that the rules aren't strict."

In fact, there appeared to be no rules apart from common precepts (obeying your parents and conducting yourself properly). Lessons began whenever he arrived – he was free to choose the hour and the texts he wanted to study. Shouyou-sensei would give him instructions on what he read, but otherwise he could set his own schedule. Sometimes, when enough students came together, lectures were held in the afternoon. Other than that, nothing was fixed.

This was where Katsura wanted to be, this was where he could settle.

* * *

Amaterasu is stretching across the horizon and her gaze alights in Zura's hair that fans out over the ruined futon. Takasugi sits by the window and admires his handiwork. Zura is a roadmap of healing scars and rivers of blood, all carved by his hand. He's too perfect not to be marred, or else he would blind those in his path. (You could say Takasugi lost his eye to him, never mind that it was an Amanto who took it.)

He could never stand him and his proper behaviour; Zura was too in control, nothing could throw him off balance.

Back in their childhood, he tried anything to get a spike of anger out of him and twist that beautiful face into something ugly. He wanted to be sure if that boy was really real and not some sort of god or demon or ghost come to take his wits. He whiled away his time watching Zura, contemplating his nature and devising new methods how to make his life miserable.

Zura never noticed him at first, as if Takasugi was beneath him. It wasn't as though Zura carried his nose in the air or thought he was better than Takasugi – his family would not have condoned haughty behaviour – but he was preoccupied and his gaze would drift over Takasugi as though he were a vase or a wall scroll, something decorative and of little value.

This was worse than being taken for granted. It irritated him.

He wanted to be noticed.

Before their time at the Shoka Sonjuku, Takasugi used to throw pebbles at Zura on his way home from the Meirinkan. They only lived a few houses apart, but Zura never seemed to recognise him. He went home quickly, in a straight line, never dallied and never strayed from the path.

Takasugi's own family didn't expect him to rush back. Or perhaps they did, but knew Takasugi wouldn't listen. They didn't say anything; they had given up trying to regulate him. He was incorrigible. If sandals, sticks or _bokken_ couldn't bring him to heel, what could?

He suspected it was exactly what Zura couldn't stand about him: his waywardness. Takasugi didn't fit into his picture of the ideal samurai, the loyal and selfless retainer, who put the word of his lord above all else.

Shouyou-sensei was different. Shouyou-sensei never tape-measured him to outdated standards or compared him to something he wasn't. He thought he would be stunting Takasugi's growth as a person and inhibiting his abilities if he did. So Takasugi was allowed to behave in whatever way he liked as long as he didn't harm anyone, and sensei would still be pleased with his development.

It seemed Zura resented him for his lack of discipline and even tried to get him expelled from the school once. Takasugi gloated when Zura didn't get his wish and was even meaner to him afterwards.

He would flick ink at him when Zura was studying or, if he got close enough, tickle him with the brush, staining his clothes and skin. He would hide Zura's garments when he was in the bath, or else put nettles in them. He used to put nettles in his bedding too, but stopped after Zura switched them out and Takasugi unwittingly slipped beneath Zura's covers instead of his own. That night, Takasugi might have burned like someone born into Tapana, but he fell asleep breathing in Zura's soothing scent.

That all began to change when Shouyou-sensei brought in a new student. He was an orphan, and Shouyou-sensei had found him scavenging the battlefields for food after hearing stories from local farmers. Takasugi didn't know the details then, but this new boy became an attraction in the school. With his silver hair and red eyes he made the other children both uncomfortable and curious, because they had never seen anyone or anything like him. They would stare at him, but would not approach him. He might be an Amanto, after all.

Takasugi didn't really care about this nameless boy. Sure, he was strange, but he was also dull. He had said nothing when Takasugi had showed him around the school as per Shouyou-sensei's request, only stared vacantly and clutched what looked suspiciously like Shouyou-sensei's sword.

Shouyou-sensei had told him the boy still had to assess his environment; it might not have been this friendly where he came from, which made him naturally distrustful. Surely Takasugi-kun understood.

It was Zura who broke the ice, because he must have been the one with the least common sense out of all of them. Most likely he couldn't stand not knowing where in the social hierarchy to put the boy. If he was an orphan, he could be anything, and if he was to attend the school, does that mean he should be ranked among the samurai?

The boy intrigued Zura and they began spending more time together, sometimes sitting side by side but not saying anything, sometimes studying the same texts together. And when he says studying together, he means Katsura reading out the text and Gintoki – for that was the name Shouyou-sensei had given him – dozing by his side. Shouyou-sensei smiled warmly at them, because Zura was helping Gintoki adapt, and Takasugi was jealous of this development.

It aggravated him that Gintoki was showered with so much attention, both from sensei and from Zura. He felt left out, and Zura didn't even notice.

Worse, Takasugi couldn't play tricks on Zura any longer, because Gintoki started defending him. It was as if he could smell what Takasugi was up to. Before he could even touch Zura, Gintoki was on him like the ferocious little demon he was.

Shouyou-sensei encouraged them to make out their differences between them.

It took living together with sensei for them to grow closer, but their rivalry only heightened. Each vied for sensei's attention in their own way and didn't want to be outdone by the others.

*

Takasugi picks up the tongs next to the brazier and with them lifted a piece of coal to his _kiseru_. When the _koiki_ lights up, he takes a deep drag.

Useless memories. His past doesn't matter.

He settles beside Zura and places a jar for the ashes in front of him. Katsura twitches in his sleep, his jaw clenches and unclenches and his eyes are fluttering behind the lids. He has often watched him like this. He would lie awake at night to try and make out Zura's face in the dark. It was possible during summer nights, when the _shoji_ doors were opened to the veranda for circulation and the light from the stars illumined the room. Lanterns too, sometimes, when sensei was up late at night, discussing history or politics with some students.

Zura's face was so pale and untouched in the moon's silver beams, like freshly fallen snow. Takasugi had always gone out of his way to leave his footprints in the undisturbed white. He couldn't leave it alone.

But Zura wasn't a heavy sleeper and would often notice Takasugi's eyes on him. "Stop staring at me," he would mumble and if the lantern light was burning, he would pad over to sensei's study to sit with the overnight students.

In all of his memories there is only one instance in which Takasugi is running and Zura is holding him back. It should have been everything he could have hoped to receive, but in that moment his entire focus was trained on his teacher...

Zura may not be a heavy sleeper, yet he seems to prefer shutting out reality and staying in the dream to waking up and facing him.

Reaching out, Takasugi smoothes a damp lock of hair from Zura's face.

"You've become even more beautiful, Zura. It drives a man to his end."

And as those words leave his mouth, they become an echo of the last time he uttered them.

*

"I am here to fight," Zura said back then, after refuting his nickname. "Like everyone else. I am not here to be admired."

"It's not mutually exclusive."

"Focus on what's in front of us."

"You are in front of me." He wanted him then – wanted to possess him, to dive inside his skin and be closer than was humanly possible.

"Takasugi, I don't know how you want to humiliate me this time, but this isn't the right time. If— when we make it out of this war alive, you can continue your childish games to your heart's content."

"I am serious. Do you want me to cut off a piece of my thigh to prove my sincerity?"

Katsura stiffened and turned around. "Keep yourself together. There will be plenty of opportunities for the Amanto to chop you into bits if you let them."

*

Takasugi ensnared him later, when he was still too weak to fight, and frustrated by it. Zura had been kept out of most command decisions so as not to agitate him; he might be wanting to join the frontlines too soon. Once he was good enough to stand, he mostly tended the wounded at the back camp.

Takasugi was in his tent, fixing a gash on his upper arm. It was surprisingly difficult to stitch with his left hand. His tentflaps rustled.

"Any news?" Zura asked, entering his tent. He was still limping because he had dislocated his hip during the blast. He had nearly been crushed beneath Amanto carcasses. They had spent hours searching and almost suspected him to be strewn about the detonation zone.

"We're standing by for now," Takasugi said around the needle between his teeth. "How are your burns?"

"Healing. More importantly, what are you doing?"

"I should think that is fairly obvious."

"Why didn't you seek out treatment?"

He made a dismissive sound. "You— everyone is busy. And anyway, this is nothing. Do not concern yourself with me."

"You became my concern the moment you joined this cause. Now let me handle this." 

He took the thread and needle away from Takasugi and began mending the wound with sure hands. His calm efficiency was fascinating to watch after he had been in pieces due to pain. And keeping this thin layer of composure up appeared to be quite a strain: a faint sheen glistened on his forehead, his breathing was that much deeper, and his mouth was set, but his hands didn't shake.

"I hope you are aware that there is no need to put up a brave front here. There is no one to judge you. We're alone."

"Precisely. You are the last person I would want to be around with my guard down." His eyes flickered up to meet his gaze. He was so close. Takasugi could just lean in and... Not yet.

Instead he asked, "Do you suspect me to stand between you and your role as acting commander?"

"You may feel the need to patronise me after what happened. But let me assure you, there is nothing wrong with my head. My thoughts are as clear as before."

Takasugi chuckled. "On the contrary, there is plenty wrong with your head."

Zura jabbed the needle into his arm. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

"Ow."

"You deserved that."

"So I did."

Zura finished the last stitch and cut the thread. "There. All done." His work was cleaner than Takasugi's one-handed attempt, almost professional. He probably did this on a daily basis now.

When Zura picked up the blood-flecked cloth and dipped it into the water bowl to clean the wound, Takasugi closed his fingers around his wrist, pulling him closer.

"Is there anything else that I deserve?"

"Like what?" Zura eyed him suspiciously.

"Like you, for instance."

He cupped Zura's head and tugged him forward, meeting his lips. He no longer cared if Zura would refuse him, or even hate him. He just needed this one taste to be satisfied; he might not get another.

Life was too short for second chances.

* * *

The sun is touching the mountaintops in the horizon by the time Katsura wrests himself from his nightmares. It takes him a while to sort himself, to remember where he is, what has happened last and in what year. Now that the vicious pocket of time that swallowed him before has spat him out again, he feels a little like Urashima, as though he has spent thirteen years if not three hundred underwater, or, in his case in the belly of the beast.

Katsura is sweaty and hot and when he tries to move, his whole body aches. Maybe the war isn't over after all, and this is the fatigue from fighting.

Out of reflex, his hand slides around the futon to fumble for his sword. There's no _wakizashi_ beneath his pillow and his sword is nowhere near his head, where he would have left it. The ground is corrugated and even, no grains of dirt between the grooves, and anyway: a futon?

He grunts and manages to heave himself upright. It turns out the quilt doesn't stick to him because of his sweat – or not only: there is blood on it, and on him, too. It's his own, from a number of cuts, and he knows then that this wasn't the work of an Amanto. They are too shallow, too clean and too far away from places easily accessible in battle.

There is a rough strip of fabric lying next to him, coiled like shed snakeskin. A bandage.

Of course. 

He remembers, but doesn't want to. There's a reason he tumbles back into the past and shuts out the present every time they are together, and it's not only because Shinsuke sparks the memories. Katsura should have enough of them by now. Too many re-runs ruin even your most favourite TV shows. 

He thinks, perhaps, back then what they had together might have all made sense.

Shinsuke is gone now. As usual, he vanishes like a ghost in the morning mist. Sometimes he wonders if he was just that, a ghost, or the fragment of a nightmare, because he leaves Katsura's world askew. It feels tilted, off-balance, and Katsura himself is not centered in his body.

Shinsuke rarely sleeps in Katsura's presence, and if he does, he's tossing and growling and mumbling in his sleep. It's dangerous to wake him then; he's prone to attack: kicking, biting, ripping – a feral beast without human thought, but all the more drive for self-preservation.

He would lunge for the throat then – did so once, in fact. He was quivering and breathing raggedly, and Katsura shook his shoulders to wake him only to find his Adam's apple nearly crushing his windpipe and his eyeballs bulging out of their sockets. He kept very still so as not to disturb Shinsuke further and give him room to settle, to let him know there was no danger.

Shinsuke's breath came in heaving gulps and Katsura was beginning to envy him that freedom, because his lips were growing numb, his face tingly and his vision blurry with dancing spots. Slowly, recognition dawned in Shinsuke's eye and the constricting of his throat abated.

"Don't do that again," he rasped, as if Katsura had been the one strangling him.

The next time Katsura found Shinsuke in the grip of a nightmare, he would slip his arms around him, catching his jerking body and buffering it with his own. It was hot and sweat-slick and uncomfortable, but what could he do? At least, Shinsuke began to relax when Katsura ghosted a hand down his hair, his neck, his spine, and his breathing soon evened out.

That was long ago. Nowadays, it seems to Katsura as though Shinsuke avoided sleeping altogether. That certainly eliminates the possibility of nightmares. But not of confrontation. Maybe that is why he slips away with the night. Though, what more is there for them to say when all this is over? He has used up Katsura again; that was all he came for. The blood-sucking parasite.

Best not to think about him.

His gaze flickers around the room, searching for something to focus on. There is another futon in the corner, rolled up and unused. Elizabeth sleeps on it, but he isn't here. Katsura is alone.

His own futon is a lost cause. He would have to wash the remains and sell it for scraps before Elizabeth returns. Elizabeth doesn't know anything about Katsura's past, and Katsura intends to keep it that way. Slashed and bled-through bedding would only raise unnecessary questions. Or would in Katsura's mind, at least. Elizabeth is very considerate and doesn't pry. There is only so much you can squeeze on a placard.

Sometimes though, Katsura wishes there was more communication between them, or in his life in general. He misses the sound of human voices. Meeting with his fellow Joui is all very well, but whenever he wants to talk about strategy or the future of the country, they're talking about this season's hottest dramas. 

Their voices aren't directed at him, and despite their shared goals, he feels no connection.

It doesn't compare to what he has with Takasugi, sporadic though his visits may be. They connect on a different level and it's strange to think that he shares more with a man he can't stand than with comrades who have sworn their life to rebuilding their country. Once upon a time, Shinsuke may have been a comrade with similar ideals, but Katsura would rather chop off his head before allowing him to have a hand in reforming Japan. It's a testimony to his patriotism. He would do it, if Shinsuke gives him a reason. But until then...

Katsura gets up to make tea and clear his mind, but his body can't stop trembling. The memories have bubbled up from too far down and have created holes in his foundation. The emotions they stirred in their wake are too numerous to go though in one night. They leave Katsura scooped out and hollow.

Katsura buries his head in his hands. What is he doing? He can't go outside like this.

*

That night, Katsura's nerves are still delicate and his thoughts circle yet again around the reason why this would affect him so – he faced down worse enemies during the war, worse experiences, worse nightmares during his waking hours.

There's a rattle at the door and Katsura is on his feet with his sword extended before he can think about it. He lashes out the moment he senses pressure on the rice paper screen.

Swords clash and a wave of wet copper pervades the air.

Shinsuke pushes him back and staggers into the hallway. Katsura doesn't recognise him at first. Flecks of blood stain his face and clothes and his sword is dripping. He's dressed up as a Buddhist monk and the outfit is vaguely familiar. (Has he picked up Katsura's penchant for disguises?)

Katsura wants to douse him with water to drown out the smell or rush in to support him, because this might still be his blood. Before he can act Shinsuke's sword clatters to the ground. He lunges at him, nearly impaling himself on the sword Katsura is holding out, but which now sinks to his side, as though his wrists had turned to rubber.

Shinsuke yanks his hair back and a firework of heat explodes in Katsuras body, fanning outward and electrifying his farthest nerve endings. Shinsuke tastes of blood and smoke, and Katsura cannot even think to bid him to rinse his mouth – his ferocity is overpowering. It's the same urgency they had during the war and any fight he puts up only helps to re-open his cuts. 

This is suddenly too close, too intimate, too smothering, and Katsura cannot remember the last time they communicated their passion through the slide of their mouths. It was always Shinsuke who tasted, but never offered himself for a taste.

Shinsuke must have noticed his bewilderment or the tiny spark of panic Katsura tried to suppress, or the tension in his spine, because he rests his head against Katsura's neck. His shoulders are shaking beneath Katsura's fingers and he's out of breath and laughing and Katsura thinks he could almost mistake it for a sob.

But his voice betrays none of the emotions Katsura would have expected. Instead, he sounds triumphant.

"Did you think you may have lost me there?" An unspoken _like you did back then, when I was on the brink_ finishes his thought.

Katsura turns his head away, but Shinsuke won't let him. He cups his head with both hands, forcing him to meet his eye. It was smoldering and heavy, as were the palms against his jaw, the column of his throat. He could feel every hammering heartbeat that way.

"Why don’t you cut me down now?" he asks. "You always speak of wanting to, yet you let all your opportunities slip. Won’t you feel betrayed if someone beats you, if someone took away the satisfaction of having killed me?"

"I'll kill you when I have to," Katsura says, and sheaths his sword. Let him think of that what he will.

"I’m not so well-loved as you may think, Zura. There is bad blood out there. Not only you or the Shinsengumi want to see me dead."

He doesn't say, _I don't want to see you dead._ Instead, he says, "It's not Zura, it's Katsura."

Shinsuke chuckles and genuine amusement laces his voice. A rare blend. "You never change, do you?"

"I have changed more than you have."

"And yet I am not the man you think you know."

"I cannot say I've ever really known you. You're like an apparition: one moment you're there, the other you're gone. One cannot get a hold of you."

"You never created the impression of wanting me to stay." 

Shinsuke pauses, runs a thumb across Katsura's lower lip, but before Katsura can pull the digit into his mouth, Shinsuke leads him into the main room.

"Come, there is reason to celebrate." He holds up a gourd. Of sake, most likely.

"You're already inebriated." Katsura frowns and stops. "It's in the way your face glows, the way you're leaning on me. You cannot even stand on your own legs anymore."

"Zura," Shinsuke places the gourd on the low table in the middle of the room, then slides his hands up Katsura's arms and grips his shoulders. His face may be heated, but his stare is piercing, intense, soul-shaking. "Do you know what victory feels like? It's a rush like no other. The smell of his blood still fills my nostrils, and ah, I would pull him back from the dead to watch that smug certainty drain into terror again. I can see him before me, panic in every pore, and feel the warm spray of blood when I stab him. Sake cannot recreate the intoxication of plucking the king from the board."

His laughter borders on the maniacal, and Katsura takes him by the middle, steadies him.

"Takasugi, wait. I can't make sense of your mad talk. You're not referring to the shogun, are you?"

"Not this one, no. The one before him." His fingers trail up Katsura's throat and where they brush against his hairs, prickling fans out across his scalp like a cloud of spores. "This is my gift to you."

Katsura's breath catches. Shinsuke can still play him like a _koto_ , knowing which strings to pluck.

"You know what he was responsible for, don't you?"

Katsura nods slowly. It has taken him years to unearth the connection. The Kansei Purge. Intellectuals from all across the land imprisoned and sentenced to death for insurgence. Men dressed up as monks setting fire to a school full of innocent children, and robbing them of their teacher. They have worked for the government, but the official accounts on them have disappeared when Tokugawa Sada Sada retired. Proof of their existence was hard to come by. "So you do still care about sensei."

"That man is dead. He means nothing to me. I care only about revenge, about killing every single member of the government if necessary. They're all rotten."

"Takasugi, stop. The world isn't going to change simply by toppling the Bakufu. What if you are caught?"

"Then, I believe, you will be able to admire my head on a pike. I'll send you a postcard from prison before they execute me."

Shinsuke catches the fist that is aimed at his solar plexus, as though he anticipated it. His mouth curls into a grin when Katsura glares at him.

"Don't you dare insult his memory."

Shinsuke hums. "Fierce, I like that. You're so beautiful when you're angry with me."

"Stop treating me like an object of your twisted desire, Shinsuke!"

Shinsuke tenses and his eye widens a fraction. Katsura must have taken him by surprise; he doesn't call him by first name, not without reason. Last time was years ago, when they flirted with the abyss, ready to leap at any time.

But he catches himself quickly, leans in and whispers, "I can't stop: I want you to hate me more."

Katsura compresses his lips and balls his fists into Shinsuke's _samue_. He struggles with the answer. "I have reached my limit. I cannot hate you any more."

And the funny thing is that he means it. He doesn't need sake for this confession. 

The wound at Katsura's shoulder cracks when Shinsuke sinks his teeth into his sore neck, and he drags his tongue across the broken scabs, lapping up the beads before they break surface tension. Tonight, there will be no new wounds on Katsura's body: Shinsuke has stilled his need for blood already. Tonight, past and present are of no concern.

Tonight, Shinsuke is no ghost and Katsura is not alone.

Shinsuke's hands do not squeeze his throat this time, but smooth over Katsura's body, coaxing the tension and the remnants of anger out of him. Katsura lets himself sink into the embrace. It's different, strangely bewildering, to accept this so clearly. Until now, he has thought of this as a reluctant offering, because it was easier to give himself away than admitting he wanted it, too. He wasn't brought up to covet things for himself: being a samurai meant self-sacrifice.

But Shinsuke evidently had no qualms about being selfish, and taking what he craved.

Dealing with him should have taught Katsura a few things long ago. But it was never too late to learn something new.

Holding his breath, he tugs at the strings of Shinsuke's _samue_ , carefully, so it comes undone without a whisper. He does not want to disturb the silence inside his head, or the cicada's serenade outside of it. 

His finger skim along the lapels, baring more and more of Shinsuke's chest and torso and the cuts where he had broken apart and was sown back together. He is so slight, almost malnourished, but his skin is smooth, and suddenly Katsura's tongue longs for a taste.

He presses Shinsuke onto his back, and he watches, intrigued, curious, fascinated, because this is taking a turn for the unexpected. Katsura never took the initiative, just let himself be taken.

The cotton of their garments whisks as Katsura straddles him; not only Shinsuke's hipbones dig into his thighs – pressure that attributes to the state of his arousal. Gathering his hair over one shoulder, he leans forward, weighing down on Shinsuke's length and breathing in the spicy _koiki_ aroma, the pungency of burning leaves, the tang of blood that still suffuses him. His tongue catches a bead of sweat and follows its destined path down Shinsuke's neck. It hitches on scar tissue.

It glides along Shinsuke's clavicle, as his hand traces his ribs, trailing lower, skimming the top of his trousers, then back up again, rubbing a thumb over his sternum. He travels lower, to the scar that was his own doing, a clean gash below the navel. The wound had been relatively shallow, nothing to do permanent damage, but it has healed rather jaggedly. Do his followers not know how to treat wounds properly?

Shinsuke threads his fingers through Katsura's hair and every stirring strand shoots a spark across his scalp. He tugs his head up and Katsura finds himself gazing at his soft, but unreadable face. Katsura wants to know his thoughts.

"You surprise me, Zura." Shinsuke's eye glistens darkly in the lamplight and his voice is thick, as though something heavy was clogging his throat. Katsura swallows in his stead. "I didn't know you could be this seductive."

Katsura's eyes draw into slits. "It's not Zura. It's Katsura. And don't say such embarrassing things."

"I don't see anything embarrassing in this."

Katsura turns his face to the side. "Shut up, you're ruining the mood."

"Oh, now you're worried about mood?" Amusement rings faintly in his voice, but the thickness remains. "Allow me to rectify that."

*

"They are still out there," Shinsuke says. "And they're after us."

"Whom do you mean?"

He is still lingering inside Katsura, and his face hovers inches from his own. Katsura reaches out to brush some sweat-soaked bangs out of his face and his fingers graze the sutures over his eye. It's a grisly slash and Katsura wonders not for the first time if Shinsuke can live with the disfigurement, or why he hides the scar behind a bandage, a sight Katsura will forever associate with those last desperate weeks. Was it intentional?

"The Tendoushuu."

They can be like this, mingling and intertwined, and yet Katsura feels disconnected. As if the only time they can really access the same wave-length is when they are both not thinking, as during battle or... this. Whatever this is, exactly. He still hasn't found out.

It's not love, or anything sweet – there's a promise to die by each other's hands that hangs heavy between them.

It's not hatred either, or they would have carried through on that promise, no matter the circumstances.

"Is that concern I'm hearing? For my sake, I mean," Katsura asks.

It must be something in between. He's angry at Shinsuke for doing what he does, and helpless for not stopping him, or being able to stop him. And yet he waits for him, welcomes him back in his arms, gives him every opportunity to put a knife through his heart.

"Whatever you wish it to be."

Shinsuke slips out of him, spent, and lies down next to him. Sweat stings in yesterday's cuts. Katsura continues to stare up.

"You will be going after them."

"Each and every one."

Katsura nods. This is nothing he could talk Shinsuke out of, and neither does he want to. It should have been strange to know that one's rival-friend-comrade-enemy- ~~lover~~ was an assassin and to do nothing about it, but his own hands weren't exactly clean. He could only speak for his own crimes. Condemnation was another's duty.

He remains silent while Shinsuke draws spirals in the fluids on his abdomen. Normally, he would have called him out on its offensiveness, but there's something strangely accepting in this, of who they are and what they do. Katsura cannot remember Shinsuke ever having been this calm, or is it contemplative? It must be the blood of his latest victim that has transformed him.

As if he could read his thoughts, Shinsuke carries on. "This changes nothing, you know."

Katsura is aware. "No. It never does."

And he doesn't expect it to. Hope has died a long time ago, but his beliefs are still as firm. He would see his plans to the end and neither Shinsuke nor some random Amanto organisation would be able to stop him. In fact, _he_ was going to stop _them_ before that happened.

The Tendoushuu would be easy, considering. Katsura doesn't think Shouyou-sensei's demands for a peaceful solution applies to them. Shinsuke, however, is another matter entirely. He is dangerous, not only to those around him, but to himself as well.

He promised Shouyou-sensei to look after him, which he has done so far, in his own way. There is no right way to deal with Shinsuke, after all. He has tried so much, from being friendly to outright hostile, but nothing has work so well as simply taking in stride every mood he has to offer.

And Katsura thinks if this can keep him from destroying himself for just another moment, he will continue to give. Just as he has always done.

**Author's Note:**

> [hour of the tiger]: Between 3 and 4 a.m.  
> [Kaibara]: Kaibara Ekken*. A scholar who wrote about the education of children during the Edo era.  
> [Kansei 6*]: Actually Ansei 6, or 1859  
> [Kido]: The historical Katsura Kogorou was born as Kido Takayoshi* and adopted into the Katsura family when he was seven.  
> [koiki]: A kind of tobacco  
> [koto]: String instrument. Yes, I know Takasugi plays the shamisen, but that would have destroyed the flow of the sentence.  
> [Meirinkan]: The domain school in Hagi  
> [Mibu dogs*]: Shinsengumi  
> [samue]: Working clothes worn by Buddhist monks of the Zen school  
> [Shida Kichinobu]: Actually Shida Kichinosuke, quoted by Yamamoto Tsunetomo in _Hagakure_  
>  [Shoka Sonjuku]: The private school Yoshida Shouin founded in Hagi.  
> [Tapana]: One of the 16 hells in Buddhist cosmology  
> [Urashima]: Urashima Tarou, the guy who rescued a turtle and was invited to the Dragon God's castle under the sea. But you know the story, Gintama covered it.
> 
> [elegant character]: Compare 木戸 (Kido, "wood/tree", "door") and 桂 (Katsura, a kind of tree that grows in Japan)  
> [skin of a dog, hide of a tiger]: Yamamoto Tsunetomo, _Hagakure_. A samurai must outwardly look his best, while being frugal on the inside.
> 
> Any further question? Feel free to ask. *For more cultural notes and background information, please visit [this post](http://crookedteaspoon.tumblr.com/post/54175155756/the-chrysanthmum-vow-notes). (Also, does anyone know _how_ people in 19th century Japan and before lit their lamps? I nearly went crazy trying to research it.)
> 
> Please review!


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